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 Posted: Sun Oct 01, 2006 4:38 am
Grey day, bright soul The weather is all upside-down and backwards and it dizzies Loki, as if the cool wind has swept her up and tossed her about as easily as it whips her cloak and blasts her pale skin. It should be summer now, she thinks, a little wistfully – the sun should be shining even this late in the evening, defying the oncoming oven-baked night and surrendering only a little to the slight breath of cool wind that comes in from the sea when the tide turns. The galahs and the magpies would still be squawking and squabbling in the trees, jostling for the perfect roost. The possums would be clattering across the roof, pausing wide-eyed to stare down at her, wondering if she would offer them some fruit. Loki stares up at the grey-brown trees, the last tattered leaves falling down onto the footpath, golden and sunset, to flutter in her wake as she sweeps her cloak more tightly around her, trying to shake off the chill. Moving to Gaia was a wonderful idea, she tells herself. She would have had no chance to build such a career for herself back home – Australia doesn’t have the huge art and trinkets industry that Gaia supports. Here, her little shop is flourishing, her work appreciated – still, she isn’t built for cold weather. Better hurry home, she decides, before it gets any worse. Besides, the cats will be hungry.This thought brightens her mood considerably, and she speeds up her pace. She’d never been able to keep cats in Australia – they hunted a little too well, leaving the native wildlife helpless before them. You had to keep them locked up inside at night, or some poor little rosella would be snackfood. In Gaia, there is no such problem, she thinks, turning into her street. The cats can wander about as they please, without upsetting the delicate balance of - “Ophelia!” Loki comes to an abrupt stop at her front gate. Maybe letting cats outside isn’t the best idea, wherever you live. Her black and purple cat completely ignores her, and continues trying to pounce some helpless little creature – a bird, by the way it flies out of the cat’s reach, narrowly avoiding a batting paw. Loki swings open the gate and hurries to the rescue, catching the cat by the scruff of her neck just as she manages to snatch her prey out of the air. “Come on, let it go,” Loki scolds. The cat gives her a sour look, but lifts her paw. It isn’t a bird. It isn’t even alive. But… I could have sworn it was moving by itself, Loki thinks, blinking at the bright green leaf the cat has ‘caught’. Ophelia, noticing her owner’s distraction, makes a sly swipe at the leaf, but a gust of wind catches it, fanning it up out of her reach. She gives a disgruntled meow, and pretends to have lost interest, moving off to sniff at the daisies with an air of affronted dignity. Loki scarcely notices. The wind seems very strange. The leaf dances about in the air, but neither falls nor drifts away from her. It’s so very green in the autumn evening. Loki reaches out. There’s a sensation, something like giggling, sweet and infectious. Her fingers close around the leaf’s slender stem. She smiles. “Okay, let’s go inside before we freeze,” she says aloud. She feels light-hearted somehow, though she can’t quite place why. Inside, the house is a little warmer, and the other two cats tangle themselves between her legs, as though knocking her off her feet will get them their dinner any faster. Absently, Loki floats the leaf in the shallow glass dish on her dining table, amidst coloured glass beads and unlit floating candles. The cats know better than to climb up there, so it will be safe. It’s full dark now, and she moves to draw the curtains, feed the cats, all the other little ‘home from work’ tasks that need doing. She forgets. But the impression of delighted giggles haunts her dreams.
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Posted: Thu Jan 04, 2007 3:15 am
Un-identification A soft thump makes Loki look up from her book. She knows that thump – it's the covert thump of a cat up to no good. "Now what are you getting into," she mutters to herself, putting the book aside reluctantly. "It'd better not be the kitty treats again." She heads for the source of the noise, moving quietly so as to catch the villain in the act. At the door of the kitchen she pauses, peeking in. Jedi, the Siamese, is up on the dining table, slinking close to the tabletop as he endeavours to sneak up on the centrepiece. "Get down from there!" Loki exclaims. The cat turns his head, blinking slowly at her, then quite deliberately looks away. Loki swoops into the room and grabs him around the waist, lifting him clear of the table. His claws unsheathe as he struggles to escape, but Loki is too fast for him, and the table is safe from his vengeance. "What is it with you guys and my leaf?" she wonders aloud, remembering Ophelia's strange behaviour the other day when she found it. She cuddles Jedi against her shoulder, but his struggles intensify. He all but hisses at her in his desire to maintain a suitably independent demeanour, and Loki gives up and drops him on the floor. He lands on his feet, giving her his 'you'll keep' look, and stalks off to find something else to play with. Loki sits down at the table, folding her arms and resting her chin on them, eye-level with the leaf in its pretty glass dish. There's a lot less water today, she thinks, looking closer, but no sign that Jedi has spilled it at all. It's like it's just evaporated, but in this weather that seems unlikely. She tries to remember how many days ago she brought the leaf inside. Four, maybe? A week? She's not sure. The leaf is the same luminous green it was when she found it, no touch of brown or gold, no curling up along the edges. She picks it out of the dish, turning it over in her hands. It doesn't feel like plastic, and the pattern of the vanes is just slightly too uneven to be anything but natural. She tries to think if anything in her little florist shop grows leaves like this. It's the wrong shape to be oak, and the wrong colour to be a gumleaf. Definitely not wattle or pine... Loki cradles the leaf in her hand as she heads back out to her loungeroom, and sits down on her knees in front of the bookshelf. She sets the leaf on the shelf above her, and begins pulling down books – gardening books, flora of various countries, exotic plants. After an hour, Ashori, the Feathertail cat, comes over and curls up beside her, resting his head on her lap to watch the proceedings. He eyes the leaf with apparent interest, but unlike his siblings, makes no effort to catch it. After three hours, Ashori is fast asleep, and so are Loki's legs. The leaf doesn't look like it belongs to Zantedeschia, or Zinnia, either. The Complete Encylopedia of Garden Flowers goes back onto the bookshelf with the rest, leaving her none the wiser about the nature of her puzzling little leaf. "What are you?" she asks it, exasperated. The leaf twitches, then flutters happily up onto its point of its own accord. Loki squeals and tries to scramble back, but between the cat and the pins-and-needles pain in her legs, she only manages to tangle herself in her skirts and flop backwards onto the floor. The leaf dances off the shelf and pirouettes to land on her outstretched palm. Loki stares at it, her shock fading into an amusement that she's not one hundred percent sure is entirely hers. "Stop laughing at me," she tells the leaf, curling her fingers gently, protectively around it.
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Posted: Thu Jan 04, 2007 3:16 am
Cat-proofing the Leaf The leaf has developed the alarming habit of following Loki everywhere she goes. It hovers near her as she tries to read, nearly takes a dive in the washing up, flutters innocently after her as she heads to the bathroom. She reaches out, and it's always just under her hand – but never under foot. It's driving the cats insane. She has to be careful leaving the house, or she suspects the little scrap of a thing will follow her to work. While she likes the company, if a leaf can be said to be company, she's terrified that it might blow away in the strong autumn winds, lose itself among a host of other greenery – or worse, find someone it likes better than Loki. She can't quite believe she's so attached to the thing, but then, she does have a habit of talking to inanimate objects. It was probably only a matter of time before one of them started responding. Loki arrives home to find a very dull and somehow mournful leaf waiting for her on the inside doorknob of her front door. She picks it up, stroking it with a fingertip along its stem. The sense of despondency disappears almost immediately, replaced with the now-familiar giggly jubilance, and it jiggles in the palm of her hand, giving every indication that, if it only had eyes, it would be very pleased to see her. "You're such a people person," Loki tells the leaf, wandering further into the house. Three steps later, she's mobbed by two of the lurking cats – Ophelia pounces her legs, stretching up to reach her hand; Jedi leaps from the top of the bookshelf onto her shoulder and tries to walk out along her arm. Loki shakes them both off, apologising as she does. This is not 'feed me' behaviour. They watch the leaf, and Loki wonders how much it's been teasing them while she was out. "This is getting ridiculous," Loki grumbles. "You," she addresses the cats, "behave yourselves. And you, leafling. What am I going to do about you?" The easiest thing, Loki decides, would be to carry the leaf around with her. It's light, it doesn't take up much space... there's only one problem. Loki's habitual dress of medieval ballgown and cloak is rather short on pockets. A pouch, then, she wonders? That could work. Loki herds the leaf over to her collection of jewels and other shiny things, setting it on the necklace stand while she ferrets through the various boxes. Eventually, she comes up with some little decorative draw-string pouches that look like they might be big enough to store a leaf without crushing it. She tips up the purple one, spilling brightly-coloured scarabs across the dressing table, and holds it up for the leaf to see. "You hop into this, and I'll carry you around with me all day. Yes?" The leaf, contrarily, flutters windblown back into the dresser drawer. Loki pulls the drawer out further, and peeks in. The leaf has landed on a second, and far more colourful pouch, of similar design to the first. The demand is obvious. "Bossy!" she scolds affectionately, pulling out leaf and pouch together. "Fine, the rainbow-y one it is. Though it's going to clash with my outfit." The leaf conspires to look smug. Loki empties a pile of bracelets out of the rainbow bag, then offers it to the leaf. It levitates itself, allowing Loki to ease it into the bag. The green leaf is vivid and alive against all the bright swirls of colour, a beautiful combination. "You're a girl!" says Loki abruptly, and with some surprise. "You are such a girl!" The leaf wiggles and snuggles into the cloth, looking as well-pleased with itself as it's possible for a leaf to look. Loki loops the pouch around her neck, and together she and the leaf go to find out what the cats are up to now.
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Posted: Mon Apr 30, 2007 2:31 pm
When Loki returns, she'll find a large orange flower pot on the front steps, just begging to be noticed and picked up. Or at the very least tripped over (inadvisable). There is a small note taped to the side of the pot.A letter from Eden
Dear Loki,
I'm the manager of an institution called 'Eden Project' and I've been informed that you found one of our leaves a while back. This leaf isn't possessed, but still a bit freaky : A child will grow out of it. Please don't throw this letter away now, because I can give evidence for this fact. Please come and without our institution in Barton Town and I can show you some pictures and even living Edens, as we call them.
For the development of the child it's important to plant the leaf. I provided you with a special kind of soil and a flower pot.
Have a nice day
~Lena
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Posted: Sat Aug 18, 2007 7:47 am
The Naming Of If anyone thinks it's odd that Loki has started wearing a leaf to work, they keep their comments to themselves. An occasional strange look from a passer-by doesn't faze her, not with the tiny and inexplicable bundle of green cheeriness hanging around her neck. She finds herself taking the long way home, through the busier streets, so the leaf can see all the different people. She's given up reminding herself that leaves don't have eyes. Her leaf is clearly alert and interested in its surroundings. It's nearly dark by the time they make it home, and Loki almost doesn't notice Ophelia guarding the mailbox, until she arches her back and yawns widely. Loki leans down to stroke her head, and the leaf swings about in its pouch, nearly batting the cat on the nose. Startled, Loki straightens up quickly, clamping a hand over the pouch, pressing the leaf against her chest to hold it still. Ophelia swishes her tail once, then licks her paw, and Loki relaxes again. Seems the cats are finally getting it into their heads that her leafling is not food, no matter how much it teases them. "Don't taunt the cats," she tells it, shaking her head. "Now what's the postie brought us, 'Phelie?" Loki gathers up the mail and sorts through it as she heads to the door. "Bill. Bill. Junk. Bill – hey!" Bright orange on the doorstep is a flower pot. Loki peels off the tape and opens the note, puzzled. She reads it twice, then reads it aloud to the leaf. On the one hand, it's clear that these Eden Project people are nuts. On the other hand, it would explain so much. A child growing out of a leaf makes at least as much sense as a sentient leaf does, and she's got proof of that hanging around her neck and wiggling happily, so why not? "I guess I can't keep calling you 'leafling' then, can I, leafling?” says Loki, a little dazed, as she picks up the pot. "You're going to need a proper name. What kind of child grows from a leaf?" The leaf bounces against her chest ticklishly, and frees itself from its drawstring pouch as soon as Loki shuts the front door. "Oh, excited are you?" Loki asks, looking up at it as it drifts on the non-existent breeze. "Did you know this was coming? You couldn't have warned me?" The only response is a vague impression of giggles. Loki sighs and goes to find her name books. It's a tougher decision than Loki expects. She loves names, and there are so many pretty ones. Midori, Blerta and Odharnait all mean 'green', while the Greek name Chloe is 'a green shoot'. Lata and Valli are creeping vines, while Neta is a shrub... The list goes on, but nothing suits. At last, Loki turns to a book of Australian Aboriginal words and names. Here are plenty of pretty, unusual names with lovely meanings, from different languages and dialects from all over Australia. She reads them out to the leaf, scribbling down the ones that take her fancy. Kinta means 'laughter', Kuranye means 'a rainbow', Binda means 'green place' and Tinkyo, Girrungh, Ghera, Kangka and Mirrhtyi all mean 'leaf'. So does Kirra. But in another language it's 'A cloud with a silver lining' – and isn't that what the leaf has been for her all through the cold months that usually leave her so homesick? More importantly, though, the little leaf practically backflips when the name is read out. "So, are we happy with Kirra?" Loki asks. Kirra flutters joyously around the table as if caught in a very localised whirlwind, and Loki circles the chosen name in three different colours, then tacks the piece of paper to her fridge. Then she turns back to her capering Kirra-leafling. All that's left to do now is the potting. Without warning, Kirra spins up towards the ceiling and settles on the arm of the light fitting. Loki tidies away the books and fills the pot with soil. The leaf shows no sign of coming down.
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Posted: Sat Sep 08, 2007 6:43 am
Pot Luck Loki has a way with pot plants – and the way is this: 'drench with water and hope'. It's very similar to her way with cooking ('stick everything in the microwave and hope') and her way with videogames ('hit all the buttons and hope'). In fact, Loki tends to use Hope as a substitute for Skill in an alarming number of situations. As a plant-growing strategy, though, it has its problems. It works just fine for the World plants in her shop, which are more magical than botanical, and inclined to maintain their own ecosystems when ignored. But plants in pots have never taken well to it. Loki has mourned a series of pretty houseplants over the years, as they wavered and wilted despite her very best efforts. All in all, she's long since given up on keeping them. So she approaches the little pot of earth with some trepidation. There has got to be a better way than this to help her Kirra-leafling grow. The leaf's initial agitation has somewhat died down now, and it ("she", Loki corrects herself mentally) is twitching nervously, her pointed tip moving from side to side like a metronome. If she doesn't come down soon, Loki thinks, she'll have to fetch the stepladder. The situation doesn't change over the next few minutes, and Loki decides to try reason. "Look," she begins, shielding her eyes so she can see Kirra against the lightbulb glare, "the Manager of the Eden Project says you need to be potted. It's perfectly safe. We'll put you in the pot, and I'll water you every day, and we'll find somewhere to put you where the cats can't reach. It'll be great!" Her badly-faked enthusiasm doesn't impress the leaf. Loki can't really blame her. They've been living together long enough for the little leaf to know that 'every day' translates to 'every day Loki remembers and doesn't get sidetracked by something shiny.' And it would be a lie to say there's anywhere in the house that's truly safe from the cats. The light fitting is possibly the only exception, and a pot isn't really going to fit up there. "Aren't you getting hot now?" she asks, gauging how close Kirra is sitting to the lightglobes. That can't be good for her, either. "Why don't you come down and we'll talk. We can do the potting another day." For a moment, it looks as if Kirra might be persuaded, but then she shivers and Loki feels a jolt of uncharacteristic distress – a hurt, almost frightened emotion. The leaf curls in on herself, looking miserable. "Oh geez, you're not even born yet, and I'm already a horrible mother." Loki lapses into silence, trying to figure out what exactly about the proposed potting has her leafling so upset. Surely a leaf would be happy to have some nice soil to take root in, and a place in the sun on a windowsill somewhere. But, the thought sneaks over Loki slowly, when has Kirra ever acted like a normal leaf? The letter said a child would grow, not what sort of child. Loki thinks of the children she's seen on her walks with Kirra, chasing each other through the shopping centre, squealing over a new toy. Babies chewing toothlessly on the mobiles above their prams, toddlers struggling to free themselves from their stroller restraints… Oh. It dawns on her at last. Her Kirra is an active leaf, always fluttering about, wriggling out of her pouch at every opportunity. Of course she doesn't like the idea of being cooped up in a pot. It would be like plaster casts on both legs (if she had legs). But like a cast, the pot is necessary. Loki chews her lip. She needs something to make it... if not fun, then at least bearable. She touches the empty rainbow pouch that still hangs around her neck. Kirra didn't object to it. For a moment, Loki stands in perfect stillness, focusing on the pot with eyes that don't really see it, thinking hard. Then she erupts into motion, dashing out of the room. The wind of her passage dislodges Kirra at last, and the little leaf drifts reluctantly back down onto the table, quivering. There is scuffling, banging and a cry of triumph, and Loki returns to the kitchen bearing a battered canvas shopping bag. She stands it on the table, adjusts the plastic board that holds the wide base steady, then with a glance at the leaf and a magician's hand flourish, she places the pot inside the bag. "Portable pot!" she announces, swinging it back and forth. It's not all that heavy. "I won't make you sit home with the cats, you can still come out with Mummy. What do you think?" It isn't the instant joy she's hoping for, but Kirra's mood seems to brighten a little bit, and she doesn't fly off to the ceiling again. Loki picks her up before she can change her mind again, and gently stroking her along her stem, she pushes the leaf gently into the soil of her pot. With any luck, it won't be for too long.
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Posted: Mon Sep 17, 2007 5:25 am
Bedtime Story It's late, and Loki stumbles back to her bedroom, two glasses of water in her hands - one for her and one for Kirra. The potted leaf is restless, wriggling and fidgeting against the dark soil that holds her. Loki carefully pours out the water, but tonight it doesn't have the desired calming effect. Loki feels an agitation that she can't place, but is certain doesn't belong to her. She sets down the glasses, one empty, one full, on the bedside table, runs her fingertip lightly over the damp leaf, and turns off the light. The sensation of distress intensifies, and it's a worrying feeling, something like loneliness. No sooner has she identified it, than the light goes back on. "I'm never going to get to sleep like that, am I, Kirra-Leafling?" she says, turning to the still-writhing leaf. Loki watches her for a while. "You really don't like it in there, do you?" she asks rhetorically. The leaf manages to somehow exude an aura of misery. Loki shakes her head tiredly. "I'm going mad, aren't I? What can we do to cheer a potplant up?" She looks at Kirra hopefully, in case the little leaf has a suggestion. Kirra just wiggles again, stirring the wet soil around her. Loki closes her eyes to think. What do plants like? Water? Check. Soil? Check. Sunlight? Well it's after midnight, tough luck. She blinks her eyes open, as a thought occurs. You read to plants, to make them grow. "Done!" she proclaims, and shuffles back to the loungeroom and the bookcase that dominates one wall. She has hundreds of books - but not very many are for children. Hmm. Sorting through, she finds books with pictures - a little one about tree fairies, and a large, elaborate alphabet book. Flushed with her success, she heads back to the bedroom, where all three cats have stolen her bed, and Kirra is twitching with curiosity. She chivvies the cats to squish up so she has space to lie down, propping Animalia up on the bedside table so that Kirra can see the pictures ("no eyes", she reminds herself, but the leaf doesn't seem to be bothered by this technicality). Long hours later, Loki lies buried by cats, her head resting awkardly on the still-open book, one hand outstretched to brush against Kirra's pot. The leaf stirs and fidgets, twisting about, as if trying to get a better look at the pictures.
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Posted: Sun Dec 09, 2007 4:53 am
As the weather becomes chillier, Kirra is stirred into a frenetic rush of behavior. She struggles within her pot at alarming pace, desperate to get free.
What's going on?
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Posted: Mon Dec 10, 2007 3:27 am
All of a sudden, the clatter of terracotta against wooden tabletop is the most terrifying sound in the world.
"Kirra?" Loki calls, dropping her cookbook and racing back to the table where she'd left her little leaf's pot. Kirra is a blur of green, wriggling frantically in the confines of her pot, more agitated than Loki has ever seen her. As she watches, the pot gives another little hop, unbalanced by the force of the tiny leaf's gymnastics.
Loki rushes forward, grabbing the pot with both hands as it totters dangerously close to the edge, and presses it firmly back against the table. The leaf continues to struggle, throwing itself wildly from side to side, scattering soil across the tablecloth, cool and black against Loki's hands.
"Leafling, what's wrong? Just calm down, okay?" she begs, trying to keep the note of panic out of her voice. "Whatever the cats did, Mummy will fix it!"
The cats feign innocence behind her, but Loki barely notices. She knew Kirra didn't like her pot, but this is extreme.
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Posted: Mon Dec 10, 2007 3:40 am
The edges of the leaf take on a ragged appearance and shift color into amazing shades of red, yellow, green, and blue. The leaf has begun to look feathery now, and it shakes back and forth ferociously.
And then it changes again, turning into an expanding ball of light.
No. Seriously.
What the heck?
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Posted: Mon Dec 10, 2007 3:52 am
Okay, no, this is extreme.
"Oh my god!" Loki exclaims, watching open-mouthed as the leaf reforms into rainbows in her hands. The display is totally unexpected but decidedly transformational. It almost looks like... feathers?
Then light. Without thinking, Loki lets go of the fragile pot and springs away, her hands lifted to block the glare.
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Posted: Mon Dec 10, 2007 4:13 am
It was a good think loki had released the pot as second later the orange clay objected shattered. Earthy smelling dust permeated the aired and the formerly glowing ball of light dimmed and began to mold itself into a humanoid form. brilliant white light gave way to bright but solid colors mimicking a rainbow and flesh tones. When all was said a done an adorable young child sat on the Table carefully avoiding shard of broken pot. 
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Posted: Sat Jan 03, 2009 10:12 pm
Adjustment Loki screams as the pot shatters. Shaking, she waves away the dust with her hands, blinking and almost sobbing, and moves towards the table to see if her leaf has survived the carnage. She expects the worst. She's not prepared for the little girl before her, wide jewel-bright eyes and a blissful smile turned up towards her. She stands for a moment, unable to formulate a response to the situation. The child is beautiful, perched on the edge of her table amidst the wreckage, no sign of distress or even surprise. "Kirra?" she asks, her voice breathlessly soft. "Is that… you?" The baby's smile widens, and she holds out little chubby arms to Loki, chubby baby legs swinging, little wings (wings?!) beginning to flap. It takes a long moment for Loki to understand that the leaf is gone, and then another to realise just how dangerously close to the edge the little one is sitting. She rushes forward and awkwardly lifts the child. Little baby arms wrap unexpectedly around her neck, and she's surprised to find that the child doesn't struggle, but snuggles close. She cuddles the baby tightly, running her hand over the little feather-tipped head, the downy-soft wings. Her leafling is safe. Her baby is safe. So bright, such amazing colours. A rainbow. The baby's appearance reminds her of something: a tip-of-the-tongue memory she can't quite grasp. In dazed silence, Loki carries the Eden toddler over to the fridge. There's a magnet on the fridge, from a zoo in Australia somewhere. A little bright bird. Rainbow Lorikeet. The toddler reaches out and pries it off the fridge with awkward fingers, scattering the papers it was pinning, then sticks it immediately in her mouth. Loki's own mouth drops open in astonishment, and she gently unfurls one of the little Eden's wings. The patterns are an exact match for the bird on the magnet. Loki shakes her head in wonder. She carefully recovers the dropped papers, and finds herself holding the scrap with Kirra's name circled amongst all the discarded choices. A leaf. A rainbow. Her baby will need a middle name. She circles her new choice, removes the magnet from Kirra's mouth and re-sticks paper and magnet back on the fridge. "Kirra Kuranye Rose," she says, trying it out. The toddler giggles against her hair, a sound of such pure giddy happiness that Loki's breath catches. It fills her with an emotion that is unbearably familiar, but for the first time it has a sound attached to it. Loki finds herself laughing too.
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